“Who was Mallie Crocker?” I asked, pointing to a nearby stone.
“Mallie? She was a Wiggins ’fore she married Ham’s brother. All them Wiggins girls had the prettiest yellow hair. Real thick and curly…”
His voice trailed off and I knew his mind was running back through the years to when the people beneath these stones had lived and loved and quarrelled and laughed.
I scooted closer and leaned my head on his shoulder.
“When I was a boy growing up, a lot of my friends was nervous around graveyards, didn’t like to be in ’em after dark. Myself, I always thought they was real peaceful places. Still do.”
“But not for a long time,” I said. “Okay?”
“Not till you’re a old, old woman,” he promised—as he’d been promising from the first day I realized parents could actually die—and his calloused hand squeezed mine with as much comfort as we’re allowed in this uncertain world.